Boys
by TheAlexaCon
Summary: Boys sleeping with boys. More specifically, Consulting Detectives sleeping with Army Doctors. A lot. And also, they're not actually sleeping.
1. The Violin

_**Boys fucking boys is my third favourite thing. So, yeah. Here's the first chapter of what will be an ongoing Johnlock fic. I want your suggestions people.**_

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**Violins**

So, there's that convention. Of your ordinary run-of-the-mill-it-was-an-office-romance relationship. It says, you might be aware my dearest reader, that the sex (ahem) comes (geddit?) on the third date.

Yet, you do sometimes find that relationship that hangs precariously over the edge of this most seductive of cliff tops. Especially amongst your Army Doctors and the occasional Consulting Detective, you'll find it teetering unceremoniously on this edge; which is after all where the fun happens.

So, it had been a month of whatever this was now; nobody, neither John nor Sherlock, had dared to categorise the vigorous eye fucking going on within the walls of 221b. Yet the reasonably un-brash nature of the current goings on paled in insignificance once you considered the god damned sex of it all. The tension – the bloody tension and how it wrapped itself around the hinges and sockets and handles of 221b, flooding carpets with sex, painting the walls in sex and hanging sex from the curtain rails.

It was getting too much for Sherlock.

But maybe not what you're thinking, sweetie. See, we know that man hasn't exactly confessed his sins to The British Government, and why would we ever expect him to? And sins indeed, as it were.

But now, Sherlock Holmes couldn't bare it much longer. He was in every way possible, on his knees for John Watson to get the hell on with the deed. But to no avail.

Our poor John, he was so caring, too caring, and far less the solider when it came to his love. He, as supposedly the more experienced of the two, had no desire to fluster the brilliant man who had proclaimed his trust in John. This did not however, stop John picturing the moments and minutes he would get to spend beside Sherlock's naked body (or rather the minutes that Sherlock would spend sucking on John's glorious cock) when, finally, Sherlock knew exactly what John wanted to do to him.

And boy did Sherlock know. Sherlock was a man who knew many things, if you're just catching on. And one thing he could be sure to know for a good long time yet, was what John wanted to do to him, and what John wanted him to do in return.

And so Sherlock set about solving the problem.

John was feeling numb; with spring wind, and the dull normality that followed him around at the surgery. Luckily, he crossed the threshold of 221b at exactly the right moment.

Sherlock felt the cool air and the anticipation on his bare chest as he picked up the bow, caressed it sweetly and placed it against the strings of his violin. His brain filled with the heat, and the song and the sound of the door clinking open as he thumbed the thin strings.

John heard his second favourite sound falling down the stairs and onto the floor of the hall. He heard each note clearly, and heard the meaning behind every single one. Slowly, he began the climb to the top of the stairs.

Dragging the melody out perfectly, Sherlock stood feet apart, smirking.

John licked his lips and stuck his tongue out as he reached the penultimate stair.

Sherlock maintained the rhythm, slow, unheeding, low and soft and simple. The air moved quicker around him.

John reached the top. He turned toward the sound and his eyes fell onto a vision of delight.

The detective stood silhouetted by the red light in the window, arms cradling violin. The light found his sharp features, ran down over stiff, pale shoulder blades, over the straights of his taught back and to shivering hips. The man's arse was already that of legend in John's mind. Firm and sweet and giving way to the beauty that was to be found in Sherlock's legs. The length of muscular limbs that found the floor with soft precision liquidised any hope John may have held to go the day without a throbbing erection. The every inch and degree that John's eyes stole over the man's body, every twitch of his mouth, his trousers became splendidly tighter and tighter and tighter.

Sherlock slowly worked at his violin, oblivious and wholly aware of John's shaking presence. John could have started wanking right there.

The minutes passed with sweet godlike tension, and Sherlock waited, dragging the piece as far as it would be dragged, and blissfully, tauntingly, finished his tune.

John breathed. So did Sherlock. Then the detective smiled at the still moving air and turned gracefully toward John, who breathed again, let his mouth fall open, and reached out a hot palm to the wall.

'Holy Mary'

Sherlock's eyes flashed and John winced as his trousers became too tight for movement. He felt the need now to be rid of them for fucking, and too if he wanted to remain upright. Sherlock stood there another minute, saint like with the fading sun behind him, to let his darling trace his shoulders, and smooth chest, and welling cock, and shagable mouth, with desiring eyes.

And oh, how John did.

Sherlock bent slightly to place the violin in the arm chair. John bent slightly to check that blood was still heading further south than his sizeable erection, which was clearly and totally visible through his jeans.

'John' hummed Sherlock

'Bloody hell, Sherlock,' was the response.

'Take off your trousers, John'

'Umm,' John looked at the floor, shrugged his shoulders, and swiftly left his trousers behind him on the floor. Striding forward. Pulling the detectives face to his and kissing him for all that he was worth. Hand met arse, one erection, another. Sherlock pulled John into him, arms entangled with his, and they toppled sideways onto the sofa. John's lips parted and Sherlock's tongue fucked John's mouth. The still partially clothed John hurriedly stripped. Sherlock helped him, unbuttoning the shirt, and lightly kissing the man's chest, before he was consumed in another fiery, deep and lasting kiss.

Sherlock, who had found himself underneath, pushed his legs open and let John settle between them. His knees bent, John's head level with his own collar bones, and their two erections greedily shoved together. The two men groaned into each other blissfully. Then they began grinding into the other ferociously and on each occasion John's head fell into Sherlock's neck and he sucked, and Sherlock's head fell back, eyes buzzing wildly and mouth hanging open.

And then 'John, do you want me to suck you now?'

John was confused, the blood had left his brain a long time ago and it took him a minute to realise Sherlock was now talking about the only functioning organ John had left.

'Sherlock, love, don't do anything,' John wanted to be reassuring. He wanted to be the one in control.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed. He didn't hear what John said, but it wouldn't have made a difference anyway. He stopped his lips in mid syllable, pressed tongue against tongue, and then lifted himself from beneath John.

John considered things. Sherlock wanted to do it. It was okay. John couldn't deny that he was about to experience the most erotic moment of his life (until then). So he left it at that, and took more deep breaths.

John found himself sitting, Sherlock at his knees on the floor, arms resting on John's thighs. Sherlock smirked and John giggled. And no more was said.

Sherlock took John's cock in one hand and licked it, like a cat. John simmered. Then Sherlock abruptly took the head of John's throbbing cock into his mouth and sucked. John gasped, as Sherlock began to lick the underside, up and down its length. He slowed, and licked some more, and John groaned, and he liked it. He looked upward and into his lovers eye's. This felt right. Using both hands, he slowly pressed John's cock into his mouth, ignoring his gag reflex and taking John in entirely, until his nose met skin, and his lips fully caught John's raging penis. Then he began bobbing and he felt John grow a little more inside his mouth.

John rocked back and forth into Sherlock's mouth, fucking him slowly. He placed his hands in Sherlock's curls and vowed to return the favour once he knew how to stand and talk and think properly again. John hissed as Sherlock began sucking religiously, pumping his hips into Sherlock's mouth regardless.

John's cock was in between Sherlock's lips. John thrust deeply into Sherlock's throat, and the taller man hummed.

John widened his legs, sunk his cock further into his lover's throat and rocked some more.

Until 'Dear God, Sherlock,' and John fell silent and Sherlock held on for dear life as John rode out the aftershocks of a violent orgasm.

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_**I want your feedback! What do you want next? Tell me all your secrets... Umm, so. Reviews! Please review. I love reviews. **_


	2. On The Door

**_So here's another chapter. I love reviews, even if your saying I'm rubbish. Also, sex._**

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John and Sherlock had had sex fourteen times within the space of their two month relationship. This was the fifteenth.

The case had been one of a kind, for the yard, but less so for Sherlock. It had been a week, a trek to the home counties, several nights at Barts, and a chase along the Southbank, amongst other things, that had resulted in one very glorious Sherlock Holmes, and a John Watson so hard that it was all he could do to position himself as often as possible under a newspaper, or behind a handy lamp.

Sherlock, of course, knew _all _of this. Over the few weeks it had been since they had first had sex, he had developed a favourable ability to detect the sexual desires of a certain John Watson; he could practically sniff him out, and when he did, which was often, how he loved the results. But now, as the boys crossed Baker Street, Sherlock had just one thing to concentrate on.

With all the gusto of a Consulting Detective within reach of a John Watson, Sherlock mounted the steps to 221, threw open the door and dragged John inside.

'Now Doctor, what to do with you?'

Sherlock loved seeing John squirm. It hadn't exactly taken John long to adjust to the new side of Sherlock on display. He was effortlessly so-damned-sexy, and the confidence he bore in his 'usual' life would spill out into this 'secret' one; he could perfectly master the art of brain numbing seduction within a second's notice.

The taller man pressed the Doctor against the door of 221, majestically grinding into him with the force of sixty Met. officers. John groaned with exceedingly-loud appreciation.

'Oh, I know,' Sherlock moved his hands slowly, one found its way to the collar of John's shirt, and the other slipped up the back of it, stroking the Doctor's shoulder blades. John brushed his lips briefly against Sherlock's, then pulled out of reach, burying his head in Sherlock's neck. Sherlock hummed with gratitude.

'Where shall we start?' The Detective smiled with all the smugness of any Holmes.

'Hmmm, Sherlock,'

John's answer wasn't all that detailed, you know, nothing specific. But ,Sherlock said-

'Well, if you insist,'

-before enthusiastically unbuttoning the Doctor's shirt.

'…Every surface, John Watson, every inch of this flat. The sofa, the floor, against the bookshelves, John. I am going to fuck you so silly you won't being using words longer than two syllables for a week-'

'A month,'

'-a month. The shower, the coffee table, the bathroom floor, John,'

John shivered as Sherlock brought his shirt down his arms.

'But for now, against the front door, will do don't you think?'

John roamed Sherlock's hot mouth in reply. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, slipping his tongue into the Detective's mouth, sucking on his bottom lip, nipping at the skin of his neck and grinning all the while.

It was Sherlock's turn to groan - and John's trousers were off.

'Haaah, Sherlock,' John murmured blissfully, dragging out the syllables .

Sherlock lowered his hands on John's back, lifting him up the door. He pushed John further against it, and it creaked quietly. John was a foot off the floor now, hands resting on Sherlock's shoulders, busy lips firmly pressed against his lovers'. Sherlock began slowing grinding into John's clothed erection once more; licking his chest and neck and collar bones. Lightly pulling down his boxers, the detective became pleased with the sight. The shorter man hung above the younger one, every desire welling in his eyes, and all blood flowing south.

Sherlock's hand fell to John's erection. He whispered in his lover's ear sweetly. Then…not so sweetly. His long fingers remained motionless, teasing the most violent groans from his Doctor, kissing him for a moment, before unzipping his own trousers, and letting them fall a little.

John bit down into Sherlock's neck as the Detective swung his hips into John's again. Their raging cocks separated only by the cotton of Sherlock's bulging underwear. John reached for Sherlock's pants, tugging them down with hurried want, and Sherlock's erection brushed against John's throbbing cock; both men fell down the wall a little in reinforced heat .

John hissed, as Sherlock began using cold hands to spread his legs. They smoothed over the unexplored skin of John's thighs, lifting them to their highest height, resting the back of John's knees against Sherlock's forearms, which found their place on either of John's butt cheeks.

The two men 'hmmm'ed simultaneously.

'Ready, Doctor?' purred the detective.

John nodded quickly, dragging Sherlock underneath him, and ferociously kissing the thin, panting man. John dug his fingers into Sherlock's shoulders as he was slowly entered. Sherlock moved enticingly slowly and John called out, repeatedly, loudly, and with eyes clamped shut. Sherlock felt everything at once, the heat and the tightness and the pressure overwhelming him completely. He thrust more violently into his lover, causing the door to shake suggestively and several passers-by to look up from their pavement journey.

John's mouth felt open as the wild man before him pounded in to him again, and again, and again. His legs began to shake, and Sherlock wriggled a little, open them further and grinding into the man. Sherlock filled John up with spectacular fashion, and John hissed passionately as he felt the base of Sherlock's raging cock hit his sensitive skin, and the man's erection grew painfully further, inside his shell-shocked body.

With their free hands, both men reached over the various limbs in their way, and began to stroke John's penis.

'Oh holy fuck, Sherlock Holmes, Jesus Christ, I bloody love it' John cried out. He had given up on subtlety a long time ago. Which was a shame, as the elderly women shuffling past looked quite faint when she glanced away from the rattling door of 221.

The look of complete blissful oblivion upon the doctor's face made Sherlock howl. He was now so close to ear-splitting brain-washing orgasm, that he was jumping 8 inches in the air with every thrust inside his lover. His every present goal of sinking his throbbing penis inside a writhing John Watson, as far as humanly, fuck it, _heavenly,_ possible, was… well, important to him.

So he maintained his speed and watched as his friend's face swam with delight.

'Sherlock, pleeease' John cried.

The men's hands worked faster on John cock, stroking gently, then tugging as if there were no god-damned tomorrow.

John inhaled sharply, and came spectacularly. Flinging his arms over Sherlock's shirted shoulders and breathing into his neck, he felt Sherlock pound against him one more time before collapsing under him in a pile of limbs and sex. The two men lay entangled together, in a way that should have been uncomfortable but wasn't, at the foot of the door. John naked and Sherlock entirely clothed, they lay quite happily until a lock clinked in the door and a naked John had to slow Mrs Hudson on her path to the kitchen, while Sherlock ran about looking for:

1) A mop

2) Some clothes for his boyfriend (but not really; he was planning on hiding all of them).

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**_Thanks for reading this chapter. Mwahahaaaa (evil laugh). Please leave your suggestions, thoughts, ideas in a review. You guys are my favourites._**


	3. Not Our Dining Table

_**It's been ages, but life keeps getting in the way of my Johnlock. Here's some pure sex to celebrate the birth of Christ. I love reviews.**_

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Elongated sounds floated through 221b. Dear Mrs Hudson had unceremoniously popped out to pick up some shopping as soon as she heard the sounds of all-to-often sex, upstairs.

'Those boys!' she'd simmer as she headed out, eyes on continual roll.

'Sherlock!'

'John…'

'Oh, Jesus,'

John, clamped between his lovers legs, groaned. Sherlock, perched above the doctor, blinked - still not use to this constant, regular loss of blood to his brain.

'Good god, Sherlock…'

Delight pooling inside him, the Detective slowly rutted against John, skin and sweat and heat clouding his sight.

John, hands against Sherlock's lower thighs, kissed Sherlock when he bobbed into reach, grabbing his dark curls and pulling his lips close enough to taste the salt on them.

Everything, all their heat and desire concentrated south, John swimming in a trance of thoughtlessness and sex.

'Holy Mary…'

With a sweet pleasurable lick placed upon Sherlock's chest and a deep kiss scattered on his lover's neck came low and throaty groans.

John's throbbing penis filled Sherlock with astonishing results. Pumping slowly into the silk-skinned man, John swore repeatedly, surprised his lips could stop shaking and form sounds other than those of savage delight.

Sherlock felt the base of his lover's cock meet the skin of his glorious arse. The hot completion coursing through his body stole only a few more seconds of death-like euphoria.

Later, after a shared shower, a mop over the kitchen floor and six nicotine patches more than usual, Sherlock found himself laying legs crossed, on the worn-from-sex sofa, with a despicable idea in mind.

The flat was warmer than usual, there was no draft to be heard falling in through a left-open window or door, and the radiators were working overtime. Sherlock's Doctor sat in Sherlock's chair, laptop atop lap. Silently, with an ingrained knowledge of unreliable floorboards, Sherlock danced across the room, and fell into place behind John, chin on shoulder, arms around neck, fingers sneaking past button holes.

Smiling, John turned his head so his lips met Sherlock's cheek.

'Love?' John's simple curiosity brought Sherlock's mind to its knees.

'Oh, if you insist…' Sherlock began kissing John's shirted shoulder, moving fingers further into shirt.

'Sherlock, I hate to stop you-' laughing, the Doctor entered useless pleas.

'Shhhh,' Sherlock continued more rapidly, unbuttoning John's shirt.

'Wait, maybe not here Sherlock…'

John's protests were becoming unreasonable. A man who would happily let Sherlock sink his raging member into him in a London taxi, a public park and department store changing room hardly had a good argument in the matters of appropriate location.

'I wasn't thinking here, John,' Sherlock's tongue found John's ear, and momentarily he fell silent.

'Mmmm, Sherlooock…'

'I was thinking…the dining table…'

'I… Sherlock! I don't-' John's words were stifled by a rather exploitative kiss.

'Come on,'

Sherlock, surprisingly, pulled John from his chair and headed out the door, grabbing John's and his own coat. Watching Sherlock (and his inviting arse) walk away, John realised he had little choice but to follow, for his curiosity often overtook his sense of, well, common sense these days - especially when it came to Sherlock (and that arse).

There were stairs, the warming skies of Baker Street and London's lacy buildings with glass and granite. There were roads and roads and then leafy suburbs with high fences. The boys' taxi stopped outside a particularly high fence. The driver was inconspicuously paid, and John Watson was dragged inside the home of the British Government.

Have you guessed yet? See, Sherlock's not one for authority, especially when Mycroft Holmes is authority. And now, with a blushing Doctor by his side, he felt an urgent need to defile…things, in …places.

John had asked all sorts of endearing, but rather fragile questions.

'Are you telling me that whilst we were having sex, you were thinking about your brother?'

Sherlock had laughed.

'But…Sherlock, what if someone walks in on us, while we're, you know…?'

Sherlock had smirked and said; 'Then, my darling, we will carry on,'

Even John, the ever present figure of solidarity and morality couldn't deny that this turned over his stomach in something like lust - the thought of the elder Holmes walking in on his little brother 'defiling' John, on his dining table of all places, was enticing, although terrifying.

But without as much hesitation as you might expect, John had watched Sherlock remove his trousers, jacket and shirt, haphazardly throwing them across the ornate room. He watched, as sitting against the polished wood, Sherlock took off shoes and socks quickly. He stood and walked toward his Doctor, who had his arms really very crossed and was trying to look at the daintily painted ceiling and not the truly sizeable bulge in Sherlock's pants, or the wet, slightly parted lips hovering three inches above his own.

Sherlock moved so close to John that a bank note could not pass between them. He felt heat behind John's own trousers and smirked into the smaller man's neck.

'I will not do this Sherlock,' He lied.

Moving his hands to cover John's, Sherlock began to hum, blissfully, as if every motion, every breath was painstakingly planned in his head, as if he were following a path drawn on a map, that map being John and the path being him.

John shivered.

Sherlock's hands gently unfolded John's arms, a miracle in itself. He took John's hands and placed them either side of his substantially more sizeable bulge. Slowly he took down his pants, leaving John's hands behind.

'Fuck, Sherlock.'

Sherlock laughed, pushing himself against John.

'Bloody hell,' John couldn't even hold out for the time it took Sherlock to part his legs.

'Well done John, that wasn't too hard, was it?' chirped the Detective.

'Shut up you prat!' barked John as his hands slowly worked at Sherlock, Sherlock hummed and John's head filled with images of him and Sherlock shagging on the shiny walnut, the banging of table legs and floorboards.

Then, Sherlock backed away.

He perched on the edge of the table, before majestically lounging back, and beginning to stroke a delicious erection. 'Strip and I'm all yours,' he taunted, opening his legs a little.

Glancing out of a towering window to see a gardener offering a cigarette to a gloved, scarfed dog walker, John took his chances.

Shirt, trousers, shoes found their way to the floor and the Doctor enthusiastically climbed aboard. Pinning Sherlock down, he swore violently, promising he'd settle the score if Mycroft found them, to which Sherlock said it would be his pleasure.

It was five minutes before the antique legs of the antique table began to hit against the floor, over and over again. If you were listening for the utterly orgasmic groans of two men fucking on a table worth more than the contents of the average house then you may have heard the sounds through the dining room door. If you are Mycroft Holmes, aware that your darling younger brother and his male 'friend' jumped the side fence and snuck in though the pavilion doors, and very aware of how said younger brother may treat the five century old polished walnut where you often entertain the highest in the land, you will in all probability be listening for the sounds of two men fucking on your dinner table.

As the door opened, one of the boys noticed and was delighted by the realisation; another didn't and was therefore ashamed enough to talk only of the weather on his next meeting with the British Government. And I expect you can match our heroes to their respective reaction. As Mycroft entered he saw a sight of utter defilation if there was one.

Sherlock was suspended an inch above John, violently crashing into his arse with erratic cock. John, whose legs bent up and over Sherlock's shoulders, had his backside on full display, thighs in the air gloriously. Sherlock licked the older man's neck on each inward pound, and Mycroft's jaw dropped and far as John's mouth opened and Sherlock cackled madly as a thunderous orgasm charged through himself and John. Resigned to the madness in his younger brother, Mycroft said 'Well, do put the chairs back where they were on your way out,' and closed the door.

The boys did. Pick up he fallen chairs I mean. Once Sherlock had removed his penis from john and kissed his honour better. They went out the front door and Sherlock had to keep John from asking the gardener for a spare cigarette, as he cackled madly at his brother's expense.

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I love you all. Your lovely. I also love reviews! Tell me what you're thinking...


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